


21 Guns

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [47]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: Gen, Language, M/M, Slash, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-27 01:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14414913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Lance turns 21.  This is set during his last year of university, and Arthur is still working for the newspaper.





	21 Guns

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy of Green Day. All feedback is love. Originally written October 2011, new edit 2018.

Softly tinkling glass and the hushed sound of conversation danced through his ears, forcing the pounding headache to expand and contract with the noise. The music was too quiet, the talking too loud, the smells of food too strong and Lance shoved back from the table he was sitting at, the chair scraping on the ground, drawing unwanted attention.

He could hear his father spouting some excuse as he exited the dark restaurant, the door heavy and unwieldy as he ran through the crowd, the lights and sounds and everything too much.

*

The canyon that dipped below his feet was full of scrubby trees and cottonwoods. He could catch the heady scent of them when he breathed in, the smoke that drifted from his cigarette adding to the flavor and wet air that surrounded him. He took another drag and spread out his hands, watching the fingers shake, fascinated by the minute movements he couldn’t control, smoke drifting around his hands like tiny ghosts.

“What are you doing?”

He pinched his nose between two free fingers of the hand that held the cigarette and leaned forward on the railing that surrounded the canyon. The restaurant was behind him and to the left; he’d come through the parking lot to get to this particular hiding place. Guinevere held out her hand, and he shook a cigarette out of his pack, lighting it before he handed it to her. They smoked in silence, her long dark hair blowing gently into her eyes, his curls whipping around his head with the force of the canyon wind and the hot _Santa Anas_ that had been blowing since the previous Wednesday. His suit flapped against his legs, his sport coat back at the table. Gwen eyed him through her hair and raised a brow.

“What are you doing, Lance?”

“Watching the wind,” he answered. “What are you doing?”

She frowned at his cryptic words. “Shouldn’t you be back inside, enjoying your crowning moment of adulthood?” She sucked on her cigarette, the smoke flowing around her head.

“What kind of an idiot are you?” He laughed. “Dad will do whatever he’s going to do regardless of whether I’m there or not.” Shrugging, his slender shoulders rolled as he tilted his head left and right. Fuck’s sake but his head hurt.

“Yeah, but you only turn 21 once,” she sighed. “I’m counting the seconds till my suare. You know dad’ll go overboard for that.” She crushed the smoke out under her stiletto and bumped her hip into his. “Come on, brother. Lighten up. It’s just a dumb party. Besides, that car! You are so lucky.” She smiled and laid her head on his shoulder.

He slid his arm around her and finished his cigarette, blowing the detritus into the air. “You want it?” he asked.

“Are you kidding? Lance, what the hell, don’t joke.” Gwen laughed and pressed her lips to his left cheek, pulling out of his embrace. “Besides, I want a Jag.” She put her hands on her hips and smiled at him. “Come back inside. It won’t be terrible, I promise.”

“He sent you out here to get me, didn’t he?” The question was directed at her back. The moon behind her head set her brunette hair to glowing; Lance wondered if he looked as much like their mother as she did.

“Yeah,” she answered. “So come on before we both get in trouble.”

He tossed the butt of his smoke into the empty canyon air, knowing it was tacky behavior, but he couldn’t force himself to care. Narrowing his eyes, he watched the stars that dotted the sky, tiny winking promises that never came true.

Following his sister, he went back inside to the party and to his father’s stare.

*

The car was pretty fucking awesome, he had to admit. Although it would never be as cool as his vintage Thunderbird. He sat behind the wheel of the Charger, checking out the controls, locating the jack for his phone and booting up the computer screen that appeared when he started the thing. The engine purred, the V8 powerful and he sat still for a moment, liking the slight vibration and calming effect it had on him.

“This is a gorgeous car. Treat it right, son.”

Roland leaned over him, his arm on the window, his slicked back hair severe, the whites of his eyes bright in the gloom of the cavernous garage. His father wore an impeccable suit and Lance was pretty sure he’d sacrificed one of the house servants in order to keep the shine in his ancient Italian shoes – a blood sacrifice would be the way to go for Roland Benoit. Or perhaps he’d just sold his soul to Satan in order to keep up appearances.

More likely he’d offered his firstborn. Lance looked up at his father, his jeans and Burberry polo simple in comparison to the other man’s ridiculously expensive wardrobe. He swallowed and tugged at his collar surreptitiously. “Yes, sir," he answered with an audible click of teeth against tongue. “Thank you.” He sounded weak, and he absolutely hated it.

“Your sister insisted on the black, but I would have chosen something a little different. However, she says she knows what you like, so…” Roland straightened and reached an arm inside the car, turning the key to the off position, the proximity of his hand to Lancelot’s body forcing a stiffening to Lance’s spine. He leaned back against the seat, not willing to have his father that physically close. But he was subtle about it; fuck letting Roland know how much he scared Lance. There weren’t enough drugs in the world to take that fear away.

“Lancelot, there’s something else I need to give you. Come with me, son.”

His father turned on his heel as he handed Lance the keys. He didn’t wait.

Lance blinked a few times, the quiet in the garage a scream compared to the sound of the engine. He hated the quiet.

Pocketing the keys, he slid silently out of the seat, wishing with all his might he was anywhere else, anyplace or time or –

He licked his lips and thought of the one place he truly wished to be – and laughed to himself when he thought about telling his dad to go _fuck yourself, Roland._

But he kept his mouth shut as he followed his father outside to their backyard, the fat shining lights of the lamps that burned in their sconces on the walls flickering and smoking and forcing tears from Lancelot’s eyes – the intensity of their flame hard and angry and he wiped at his face, quickly, not wanting Roland to think he was crying. He shoved a hand through his hair, the wild curls springing at the touch, and he stopped when Roland did, the fancy table and umbrella set rising out of the dark like a fortress, unexpected though he knew exactly what the house and its acres looked like.

He father sat, and gestured for Lance to do the same.

Crossing his legs, Roland Benoit reached into his pocket and handed Lance a small black box, the name of the jeweler on it famous in the right circles. Lance looked at, knowing what was coming, hating it, but he fingered the box and met his father’s gaze.

_the future is in your hands, son_

He rubbed at his lips, refraining from tapping them as he knew his father hated that almost as much as he hated Lance’s biting his nails. “Should I open it?” he asked, his voice cracking briefly.  He cleared his throat, and his stomach twisted as he looked at the box again, a sinking feeling inside, his heart hammering, his mouth dry and sticky. He wished for the thousandth time he was somewhere else, with someone else.

“Yes,” Roland commanded, his deep voice echoing sonorously in the dark. The torches behind them flickered and crackled and Lancelot took a deep breath, wanting a cigarette – he opened the box and looked down at the simple white gold band that lay there.

“Dad, I can’t marry you,” the joke spoken without his control and he smiled stupidly, brightly. The look on his father’s face shoved the smile right off his mouth, and he shook once, wondering if the old man would understand or would he _Lance’s hand burned so hot it was cold, the ring of the stove’s burner imprinting itself forever into the flesh of his fifteen year old hand, the shocking violence of the moment blazing into Lance’s skull, cementing the hatred and fear that would coat his stomach and his brain forever._

A barking laugh from Roland, and Lance breathed again.

“You have a terrible sense of humor, boy. Yuck.  Put it on.”

Lancelot complied quickly, thanking his lucky stars that his father had accepted the joke. The ring fit of course; the clean lines of the thing winked on the middle finger of his left hand. He clenched the right hand into a fist, the old scars still crinkling and making a normal fist impossible.

“You know what this means?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered. He was now the official heir of the Benoit legacy; he bit his lip but quickly released it. “I appreciate your trust in me.”

_I don’t want this, I don’t want it, I want to be home and away from this place, fuck this, fuck everything, I could just throw it into the garbage and walk away from here_

“Keep showing me you deserve it, and you get to keep it. No more stunts like at the party last night, son.”

Lancelot nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.” He raised his head and met Roland’s feral eyes – they were blank and cold as fucking Everest. Nothing ever changed. “I promise.” The night sky was heavy with humidity and the air was thick and he sucked in a breath, the wet drowning his lungs, his heart beating sluggishly despite the fear that trembled through his veins. He touched the ring and nodded. “I will make you proud of me.”

_I couldn’t give a shit what you think of me._

Lie upon lie upon lies.

He stood when Roland did, and did not flinch when the other man clapped him on the shoulder. “Come to the office on Monday after your classes are over. We can start then. I expect you to be on time,” he added and then smiled; a shark in dolphin infested waters. “Especially with that car.” He laughed and Lancelot wanted to throw up, his own smile stretched and painful.

“Goodnight, son. Go enjoy your gift. I’ll see you on Monday.” Roland reached out a large manicured hand, and Lance automatically shook it, the growing smile plastered on his face fake and tight. He watched Roland go back in the house, the trellises that climbed the Italianate home lush and pruned and he waited until the other man was completely inside before walking toward the garage, his Marc Jacobs loafers squeaking comically in the grass. He wavered only once, catching himself on the edge of a box hedge that grew near the entrance to the street, sucking in air, shoulders tight and he allowed the spots to rise behind his eyes for only a short minute before forcing the _calm_ to come back. He wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction of vomiting or fainting. Never again.

He started the new car and drove carefully out of the garage, turning left onto Beach Boulevard at the end of the street, methodical and closed and as frightened as he’d ever been in his whole life.

*

The apartment was the most welcome sight Lance had seen in forever. He pulled into the driveway, carefully avoiding Arthur’s Bonney, and sat still for a moment, the powerful engine ticking as he kept his hands on the wheel, ten and two, and blinked in stupefaction as the door inside the open garage swung open, Arthur coming out, hands dusting themselves off, a dishtowel over his shoulder. He was wearing sweatpants and an old tee shirt and a smile that made Lancelot’s eyes burn. This time Lance didn’t mind.

“Holy shit,” Arthur whistled as he approached the car. He leaned into the window and Lance watched the corners of his green eyes crinkle. He wanted to touch the delicate skin, but he kept his hands on the wheel, where they should be. The stars winked and danced in the rearview mirror, and the lights on the street were hazy through the humid air.

“Roland,” Lance said. He shook his head. “I like my Thunderbird better.” He smiled tremulously, the motion stretching his tight face, and he felt something rise in his chest, an itching, an ache, something that had him wanting to crawl out of his own skin and into Arthur’s, where it was safer and quieter.

“I’ll take it,” Arthur joked and ran his hand over the leather of the steering wheel. He brushed his fingers over Lance’s stiff ones and frowned slightly when Lance didn’t remove them. Ignoring that, Lance smiled his fake smile again. “You can have it.”

“I was joking, Lance,” Arthur answered, his voice dropping, the worry it was tinged with forcing Lance to turn his head and look at the other man. “Come on inside. I have a surprise for you.” His grin was genuine this time, and Lance, after a moment’s hesitation, removed his fingers from the steering wheel, pocketed the keys and pushed the door open. He stood up as Arthur backed up a bit to allow him out of the car, and clutched his fingers together, the new ring biting him.

Arthur paused on the steps up to the apartment, pushing the button to close the garage door, looking back over his shoulder as Lance watched the thing shut, eyes wide, lips trembling, knuckles white with the force of the grip as he flexed fingers into fists. He leaned against the car and allowed the shakes to come.

Arthur came down the steps, slowly, hesitant. Lance wondered if he was sorry for all this, sorry for their friendship, sorry to know him, sorry for the physical relationship they had now. Sorry for the love Lance smothered him with, had taken over his life with, had crushed with and had given him no choice –

“Lance,” Arthur said, his voice soft and rumbly, and Lance bit his lip in order to stop the scream he felt building. He was sick of crying, sick of the worry, and he would not subject Arthur to the pain Roland had subjected him to his whole life. This could be a new beginning, a new place, a new chance to fucking _change_ and not be what was expected of him.

_I expect you to be on time._

He laughed, a bitter choking bile filled thing and wiped angrily at his cheeks. Arthur reached out for him, but Lance sidestepped him and headed toward the apartment. “It’s okay, Arthur,” he said, his voice trembling minutely. “What's the surprise?”

The million dollar question.

*

The living room was cleaner than he’d ever seen it, and the tiny table in their breakfast nook was dressed fancy, a tablecloth and candles and - 

“Oh, god, did you make linguini?”

Lance stepped to the table and stuck his finger in the soft pasta, sucking the sauce off it. “Oh, Arthur, wow. How long did this take you?” He smiled and faced the other man, who was flushing slightly and standing watching, hands on hips. He shrugged and scrubbed a hand through his hair, a smudge of dirt and cooking oil high up on his cheek.

“A while. You know cooking’s not exactly my best skill.”

“Did you burn the water?”

Arthur laughed and approached the table and Lance. “Only the first two times.”

_heir to the empire_

_Heir to nothing_

_Heir to the love I see in his face._

“I love you,” Lance said suddenly. He’d said it before, joking, teasing, playing. This time he set the keys to his new ostentatious car down and closed the distance between he and Arthur. He rested his hands on either side of the other man’s stubbly cheeks, five o’clock shadow dotting Arthur’s upper lip and jaw. The rasping of the hair under his fingers made something in Lance’s gut shiver, and he leaned forward and brushed his lips over Arthur’s full ones, lightly. 

There was no physical action he could act on that would show what his brain was telling him he felt, and he pulled back, dazed, hungry, lost and confused and hurt and the wind roared up from the canyon floor, carrying heat and danger and words he did not want to remember with it. He shuddered and with a quick motion jerked the gold ring off his hand, shoving it into his pocket, and leaned to Arthur and kissed him again, this time with vehemence that shook them both.

When they broke apart, both gasping for air, eyes closed, Arthur’s hands on Lancelot’s back, the fingers gripping at his shirt, Lance pressed his swollen mouth to Arthur’s one more time. Eyes closed, hands sunken into the other man’s curly hair.

“Fuck,” Arthur rasped.

“Yep,” Lance answered, his laugh tiny but real.  Their foreheads touched and they kissed once more, light, gentle, a brushing of wings, little birds alighting on freshly budded flowers.

“All I had to do was make you dinner, huh?”

A laugh again, bursting forth like the breaking of a dam.

They separated finally, and Lance sat at the table, letting Arthur serve him, letting the other man pour his wine, letting him dust the pasta with pepper and cheese. He watched as Arthur joined him, the fingers of their hands winding together as they ate.  It was the best meal Lance had had for as long as he could remember.

“Happy birthday,” Arthur said, hours and several glasses of wine later. Lance smiled and rested more fully against Arthur’s stomach, his back held comfortably by the strong muscles there. “You’re old, Lance.”

Lance shook his head, their faces lit by only the glow of the tv, the shambling of the zombies in the movie they’d put on sad and lonely. It distracted him and he watched, eyes narrowed, hands clenching at Arthur’s. He picked up the remote and changed the station.  “I thought you liked horror movies,” Arthur asked, his nose snuffling at Lance’s neck. He pressed a kiss to the pulse there, and then to the shell of Lance’s ear.

“Not tonight,” came the answer. He clicked until he found an innocuous fairy tale, and turned in Arthur’s arms. “No horror tonight.”

Arthur nodded. “Okay, Lance.” He raised a hand and brushed the other man’s hair out of his face. “Did you have a good birthday?”

_I don’t want this, don’t want to do this, don’t want to grow up_

He fingered the ring in his pocket, and then slipped it out of his pants into his hand. It shone in the light of the television and Arthur watched his face as he slid it on.

“The best.”

~

**Author's Note:**

> Platinum is not a very expensive metal, and I have realized over time that Lance's dad would have given him a gold ring, or something that cost a lot. I changed the ring in this story to white gold, and will go back and fix the other mentions of it. Which will take me a while. LOL. Forgive the new edits as I upload more stuff.


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